


Be My Valentine

by rivers_bend



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every guy should get the chance to go to a formal dance at least once in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rasah](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rasah).



> This was written for the fabulous [](http://rasah.livejournal.com/profile)[**rasah**](http://rasah.livejournal.com/) who generously donated through [](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/profile)[**help_haiti**](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/).

Sam had never paid much attention to school dances before, but he was pretty sure none of his other schools had required a signed yes-or-no answer from parents about whether or not they'd be a chaperone. Pillsbury school, in this old hippie enclave in northern California, was strange in lots of ways, though. Like requiring all juniors to take a semester of Social Responsibility, the class Sam was sitting in currently, the chaperoning form on the desk in front of him.

This semester the class was co-sponsoring the "Valentines are for Everyone" dance with something called the Gay-Straight Alliance. Sam was glad Dad was gone, because he was not the kind of man who had the patience to deal with school dances, all-inclusive or not.

Sam tried to tell the teacher he couldn't get the form signed—thinking too late that he could have just forged Dad's signature—because his father was out of town. But she said, "I _know_ your father didn't leave his sixteen-year-old son home alone for more than two weeks; whoever's staying with you can sign it. So long as they're over twenty-one." Her tone said they'd better be over twenty-one or she was going to see what Child Protective Services had to say about it.

Dean qualified by two days. Or two years, depending on whether you looked at his birth certificate or his driver's license. Either way, he could say he wasn't gonna do it, sign the thing, and Sam could give it back to Ms. Nosy-pants Parkman.

Except when Sam gave it to him, saying, "Can you just check the 'no' box and sign this?" Dean didn't do as Sam said.

He asked, "What is a 'Valentines are for Everyone' dance?"

Sam would have just mumbled something about it not just being for couples, that single people could go too, but right there on the page—the one Dean was already reading far too closely—was a blurb about the GSA and social responsibility and gay rights, so that probably wasn't going to fly.

"It's a formal. Like a prom?" This was ridiculous. Sam couldn't remember Dean going to a single dance, and he wasn't exactly into high school movies. What did he care? He should just sign the damn form.

"A prom for gay kids?" Dean was looking at Sam hard—a prettier but no less intense version of Dad's speak-up-_now_ look.

"Not just for gay kids. That's the point. For _everyone_. Gay kids, straight kids—you can go with your friends or on your own or in a couple. Whatever you want." Except Sam was pretty sure 'whatever' didn't include bringing your big brother as your date. Not if you wanted to do the things with him that Sam wanted to do with _his_ big brother, anyway.

But since it wasn't just the school's administration who would freak out, but Dean too, Sam didn't mention that part.

"So," Dean said. "Are you a member of this GSA?" Dean didn't sound mad, but he didn't sound just idly curious, either.

"No." Sam wondered what Dean would say if he said yes, but Sam wasn't much of a joiner—couldn't be with how often they moved—and he wasn't sure if he was gay, anyway. Dean was the only guy he'd ever— _Anyway,_ he wasn't a member, and he told the truth. "Everyone in the social responsibility class has to ask their parents to be a chaperone. The GSA is in charge of decorations and music."

"Okay," Dean said, and scribbled something on the form.

"You ticked yes," Sam pointed out in surprise when Dean handed it back to him.

"What else am I going to do on Valentine's day?"

"Um—Not put on a suit and stand around a school gym watching a bunch of kids act like dicks and listen to crappy music?" Sam didn't want to go to the dance himself, but it was part of their grade, so he'd figured he'd think about it. If Dean was going though, he'd pretty much have to.

"Who knows, Sammy. It might be fun." Dean winked at him. _Winked_. With a smirk that Sam couldn't quite read.

Sam wasn't sure what to do with that, so he just folded the form in half and put it back in his school bag. Ms. Parkman would be thrilled.

Dean didn't say anything else about the dance for more than a week, and then on Saturday morning he pulled a handful of cash off the roll in his duffle and told Sam to get in the car. He wouldn't tell Sam where they were going, just turned up the music every time Sam tried to ask. He pulled the car into a strip mall and parked in front of an insurance broker's office. Sam was pretty sure they weren't here for State Farm, but he didn't see anything else they might want, either.

"C'mon," Dean said again, nudging Sam down towards the children's clothing consignment shop and—oh, _hell_, no—the Al's Formalwear Rental on the other side of it.

"Dean?" They both had black suits Dad got them to wear to funerals and stuff when he needed them on a case. This was a high school dance. They did not need formalwear.

"No complaints, Sammy—"

"Sam."

Dean went on like Sam never even interrupted. "This may be the only formal dance you ever go to. You gotta wear a tux."

"I'm pretty sure I don't."

"I played pool for four hours yesterday to get the money for this. No arguing." Dean actually had Sam's forearm in his grip like he thought Sam was going to run away.

Which, truth be told, Sam actually might have if that hadn't meant wrenching his arm out of his brother's grip in a semi-crowded parking lot. Dean sometimes knew too much. "I can't believe you, Dean," Sam said, but he didn't make a scene.

Al—or the old guy behind the counter, anyway, he wasn't wearing a nametag—seemed very happy to see them. "Boys!" he said. "You need to look special for your valentines, yes?"

"Um," Sam said.

"Two tuxedos," Dean said, somewhat more helpfully. "And none of those powder blue ones with the ruffles. A guy looks like a real asshole in ruffles."

Sam couldn't see a single ruffled shirt in the place, so he wasn't sure where Dean was getting this; maybe he _was_ sitting home watching _Sixteen Candles_ on cable while Sam was at school.

"I would never put you boys in ruffles," Al said. He cocked his head and looked at Sam. "I'm thinking shawl style for you. Plain black studs, satin lapel, tie to match your date's dress?"

"I don't have a date," Sam said, trying not to edge backwards. He wasn't used to being looked at so closely. And he wasn't sure about a shawl, either.

"You boys going together, then? Wonderful." He gave them a wide smile. "I'm seeing burgundy tie in that case," Al said. Then he turned on Dean. "Peaked lapel for you. Plain white shirt, white studs, black tie."

Sam tried not to blush at the implication clear in Al's voice when he said _together_, and tried to concentrate instead on his irritation that he was supposed to wear a burgundy bow tie while Dean got black. Dean didn't seem to have noticed either of Al's comments.

They allowed the guy to usher them into adjoining curtained cubicles, and dutifully put on the clothes he handed them. Sam's suit fit really well, considering he hadn't told the man his size, although the jacket felt a little baggy around his waist. His shoulders seemed to be growing far too quickly lately. He went to open the curtain to see what Dean thought, but Al was right there, in his face with a tape measure, and wouldn't let Sam step back into the shop.

"Perfect," Al said. "I knew it. Don't even need to take those pants up. You're a tall one, aren't you?" He twitched at the button on the jacket, undoing it and then pushing Sam's shoulders back, making him stand up straighter. "A cummerbund, I think, and you can leave the jacket open."

There was a screech of hooks on the curtain rod next door, and Al stepped back, pulling Sam's curtain across. "Oh, yes," he said to Dean, and then, popping his head back behind Sam's curtain, "You can get back into your own clothes, young man, and I'll package that up for you."

Sam listened while Al cooed over Dean's clothes, and wanted to see for himself. But Al seemed determined to keep them apart for this trying-on process, so Sam just did as he was told and put his jeans and hoodie back on. They were much more comfortable than the formalwear.

It wasn't long before Dean came out dressed in his street clothes, followed by Al who came from a back room carrying two suit bags. "These for the dance up at the high school next Friday?" he asked.

Sam nodded.

"You can take yours now, son," Al said to Sam, then, "And I'll hem those pants for you, and you can pick them up any time after noon on Monday," to Dean. "Or," he added, "You can pick them up together."

Sam felt a little overwhelmed with choices; this whole thing was something other people did. Not Winchesters. Dean just took it in stride, though. Said, "I'll pick them both up on Thursday; should I pay you now, or then?"

And with that it was all arranged. Sam was going to put on a tuxedo and go to a Valentine's dance with his brother. Well. Not _with_, with. But they were both going. In the same car. At the same time. So Sam could stand around looking like a wallflower and Dean could get hit on by all the girls and probably half the guys there.

Wonderful.

"Cheer up, Sammy. You look like we just picked out coffins or something. It's just a dance."

"Sure," Sam said. "Whatever."

Sam spent the next several days waiting for Dean to say something about how he couldn't wait to score with a high school chick, or how he hoped there were some hot chaperones, but Dean never did. He asked a few times if Sam had anyone special he was hoping to dance with, cajoling a little when Sam ducked his head and said, "No," but not pressing it when Sam told him to shut up. Ms. Parkman was very pleased with the number of chaperones she'd gotten—nine including Dean—and apparently the decoration plans were coming along "swimmingly."

Sam tried to look toward Friday with anything but dread.

Friday afternoon, Sam was late getting home from school due to last-minute decorating emergencies and his regrettable inability to say no to extra credit. Dean wasn't home when he got there, but there was a note on the kitchen table.

** _Had to pick something up, home before six, don't eat._ **

 

The _don't eat_ was too late; Sam was stuffing a Pop-Tart in his mouth as he read it, but he was starving, so he figured he was still good for whatever Dean wanted him to not eat for. Unless there was going to be some kind of surgery or weird ritual, but Sam was pretty sure that wasn't what Dean meant. He did leave the second pastry in its little silver bag and put it back in the box, though.

When Dean got home he had a big bag of groceries in one arm and a little plastic box in his other hand. He got closer and Sam could see that there was a flower in the box. A flower like guys gave to their dates.

"Are you going to the dance with a girl?" Sam asked, like it didn't matter one way or another, like he was just curious. Just making conversation.

Dean looked at him like he was touched in the head. "No, why?" he said, and put the flower in the refrigerator casually, as though that wouldn't have anything to do with Sam's curiosity. "Got steaks for dinner. I know traditionally you're supposed to go out before the big valentine's dance, but there aren't that many restaurants around here, and by the time I thought of it there were no more reservations available."

"Okay," Sam said, and now he was confused. Dean was not a wine-them-and-dine-them type. At all. Never mind that he seemed to be romancing _Sam_. Who was, last time Sam checked, his _brother_. And yeah, Sam would be all about romancing Dean… Or sharing a shower with him, or getting all close and cuddly on the sofa and jerking him off—or any number of other things that he fantasized about far too often, but really needed to _not_ be thinking about right now—but Sam was twisted up and wrong. And Dean was—Dean was Dean. So there had to be something else going on here.

There were not only steaks, but a bag of salad, and some rosemary and garlic oven potato wedge things. "I'll get this started, and you can go grab a shower or whatever."

"Okay," Sam said again. He wasn't sure what else he _could_ say.

Too many showers spent jerking off thinking about his brother, and now Sam was like Pavlov's dogs or something: as soon as he stepped under the spray his dick got interested. Usually he just dealt with it quickly, but it felt even weirder—sicker—than usual when Dean was just on the other side of the wall cooking a steak and tossing salad of the less metaphoric kind, so Sam turned the water on cold and tried to think of anything other than Dean. But the cold water only made him think about how warm Dean felt curling around him when they stayed someplace they had to share a bed, which had the opposite effect than he'd intended.

In the end he turned the water back to hot and jerked off anyway. The last thing he wanted to do was go to a school dance. The _very_ last thing he wanted to do was go to a school dance popping wood every five minutes.

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to put on his tux before they ate or after, but Dean had laid it out in its suit bag on the bed, so Sam figured he might as well get dressed. He felt ridiculous in the starched shirt, but not nearly as ridiculous as he did once he tried to get the cummerbund and tie on. He was about to give them up as a lost cause—the hooks and buckles were fiddly and impossible—when Dean came in.

"Let me do it. Al gave me a demonstration when I picked them up." He was laughing, but didn't seem to be laughing _at_ Sam.

Sam stood still, trying not to blush as Dean fiddled with the tie at his throat. He could feel his cheeks go warm, but not hot, and Dean's face didn't change when he glanced at Sam's, so he figured he was doing okay.

Blood in unwanted places was much more a problem when Dean got to the cummerbund. His fingers were hot on Sam's waist, and he seemed to be doing an unnecessary amount of stroking along the top of Sam's ass cheeks, and Sam could feel his dick getting stiff and then stiffer. Dean was standing in front of him, leaning over his shoulder to see what he was doing, and it would only take him breathing a little too deeply to brush up against Sam's crotch.

"Dean," Sam squeaked. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to make it smaller. You've got no fat on your bones, have you?" Then Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's ass and pinched the top of Sam's thigh.

"Dean!" Sam leaped backwards, tripping on his own feet, and landed on the bed. "What the hell?" He would have been better off staying where he was, because lying on his back only pulled his pants tight across his hips and emphasized his problem. He caught Dean looking, and rolled over to his stomach.

"Sorry," Dean said, sounding truly contrite. "Was just teasing. You look good." As though Sam's problem was Dean calling him skinny, not the fact that he had a total boner for his _brother_.

The cummerbund seemed to be staying in place, even with Sam rolling around on the bed, so he figured they could be done now. Keeping his back to Dean, Sam got up and grabbed his jacket, heading toward the kitchen.

"I'll be there in a minute," Dean called after him.

The table was set with salad plates, and the smell of rosemary and garlic mingled with the smell of cooking meat. Sam's stomach growled and his mouth watered, his body thankfully willing to think about food now, instead of sex.

"Do you want to get drinks?" Dean's voice came from the doorway, making Sam whirl toward it. All thoughts of food flew out of his head.

Sam had grown up hearing that his brother was attractive. From creepy men telling John he had a pretty boy, to old, cheek-pinching women saying he was cute, to girls at school telling Sam his brother was totally hot—enough people said it that Sam had never doubted it was true. He'd learned though, that while knowing something like that about your brother objectively was fine—to be expected even, when your brother looked like Dean—feeling it in every cell of your body was generally frowned upon. Still, he'd always felt it. It didn't matter if Dean was wearing sweats, with his face all wrinkled from sleep, or wearing jeans and covered in grime from a hunt, or wearing boxers and fresh from a shower, Sam thought his brother was gorgeous.

But that was _nothing_ to how he felt about Dean dressed in a tuxedo.

All the oxygen in the universe seemed to be gone. Sam's jaw was hanging open and he couldn't seem to do anything about it. The hand he'd been reaching toward the refrigerator was frozen mid-air. For all he knew, the whole world had stopped spinning on its axis, stopped circling the sun.

"Sam?" Dean said.

"I—" It came out a sort of strangled squeak, but the effort unlocked his muscles, and he dropped his hand, managed to cough. "Nothing," he added, after he sipped in enough air to make words.

"Okaaaaay," Dean said, totally skeptical, and took another step into the kitchen. "Drinks?" he repeated. "There's beer in the fridge, or Pepsi, or red wine…" He trailed off, still looking skeptically at Sam.

"Wine," Sam said, figuring that would at least give him an excuse if he started blushing again.

Dean gave up on Sam actually doing anything more useful than spitting out one-word answers, and grabbed the wine off the counter, pulling open the drawer and getting out a corkscrew. He elbowed Sam's shoulder as he went past, nudging him toward the table, and said, "Sit down."

Sam sat.

Dean served steak and potatoes, poured wine into the free-from-some-fast-food-place super-hero glasses that came with the apartment, and finally sat down to join Sam at the table. He was only marginally less distracting with only his chest and shoulders visible, but Sam was also getting a little more used to the sight of him all dressed up, and so he spoke almost normally when he said, "Thank you, Dean. This is amazing."

"I just thought—" Dean took a bite of steak, chewed and swallowed. "We move so much, and Dad isn't really—" A potato wedge this time. "Anyway. Every guy should get to have a formal dance once in his life, right?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. If you'd asked him a month ago if Dean gave two shits about formal dances, Sam would have fallen over laughing. But he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He started in on his own food, which tasted every bit as good as it smelled.

They stuck to one glass of wine each; Sam was pretty sure Ms. Parkman would not be happy if any of her chaperones or students turned up drunk. They devoured their steaks, soaking up the juices with the potato wedges, and much to Sam's surprise, even Dean ate all of his salad. Despite how good the food was, they both ate carefully so as not to spill anything on their clothes.

Sam had never been on a date, but he couldn't help thinking that this was actually pretty much how he'd thought one might go—except that once he was over his shock at the sight of Dean all dressed up, there was none of the awkward nervousness he'd imagined dating would entail. It was just dinner with Dean. Mostly.

After they finished eating, Sam offered to do the dishes, but Dean made him leave them. "Don't want to ruin your snazzy duds," he said.

There was still half an hour before the dance started, and while the chaperones were supposed to be there at the beginning, there was no need to leave quite yet. Sam would have been happy to just stare at Dean in his tux for a while, but that wasn't really something a guy could bring up casually, so he was glad when Dean said, "Do you want to go for a drive until the dance starts?"

Dean took them up to the hills overlooking town, and he didn't stop anywhere to park, but Sam couldn't help thinking it was an awfully date-like thing to do anyway. He was starting to wonder if he was crazy, or if maybe Dean was, or if this was all actually totally normal behavior for a brother, and it was just that Sam didn't have anything else to compare it to besides bad after-school specials. It did give him a good excuse to watch Dean, though, as the view was out the driver's window most of the way.

There wasn't much conversation, but it was comfortable. Sam felt happy.

The dance was just what Sam expected it to be. Typical school gym not all that well disguised with streamers and balloons, though he had to admit that the fifty-foot butcher-paper mural that covered the collapsed bleachers did look pretty good now that it was up. The background was probably supposed to look like a sunset, and then there were life-sized silhouettes cut out of black paper, sitting at tables, or standing against pillars, leaning in to kiss. Sam wondered if someone had done them freehand or if they were traced.

All the well-done murals in the world weren't going to make the DJ any less cheesy, though. Instead of just playing the songs, he was trying to hype up the crowd, cajoling the "lovers" to get out on the dance floor. There were only about twenty people there, including teachers, when Sam and Dean arrived, though, so it was a little early for dancing. Sam took Dean over to check in with Ms. Parkman. She shoed Sam away to "find his friends" so she could give Dean the rules for the evening.

When Sam hesitated, Dean gave him a smile, said, "It's okay. I'll come find you in a bit," so Sam went.

There was a table of cookies and punch in the corner, and that seemed to be where most of the kids were hanging out, so Sam headed in that direction. While he was standing there waiting for Dean, a bunch more people showed up, and a few of them even started to dance. Sam's eye was caught by Adam King, the president of the GSA. He was a pretty eye-catching guy.

Adam was tall, and gorgeous, and rich, and effortlessly popular despite the fact that he was the gayest guy Sam had ever met. Drama club president, star of the choir, and member of the jazz club, he fit a lot of stereotypes. He also wore purple nail polish, tight jeans, and more jewelry than Sam had seen on anyone not on TV. But everyone loved him. Sam didn't know the history of the GSA, but he would bet money it had something to do with Adam. Sam had no idea Adam even knew he existed.

It was therefore a surprise when Adam's meet-and-greet path through the crowd led him to Sam's side.

"Hey," Adam said, "Will your boyfriend mind if I ask you to dance?"

"My—" Sam was mystified. Before he could say any more however, Adam pointed at Dean, who was still talking to Ms. Parkman. "Oh," Sam said. "He's not—" but then he realized that Adam was saying he imagined someone who looked like Dean would be with Sam out of _choice_ and not just because they were related, and that felt pretty good. "He won't mind," Sam covered.

"Great!" Adam took Sam's hand and led him out to the dance floor.

The DJ was playing _Jump_, which was painfully retro and not that easy to dance to, and Sam pretty much wanted to die of embarrassment. But before he could fall through the floor, the song changed to a slow number Sam didn't recognize. Adam used the excuse to pull Sam into his arms, though he didn't get fresh. He had one arm around Sam's back, and was holding Sam's hand. Sam wasn't sure what to do with his other arm, so he was kind of gripping Adam's shoulder. They sort of swayed in place, chests and hips not quite touching, but close enough that Sam was looking over Adam's shoulder, not at his face.

Adam turned them so that Sam was facing the mural, and then whispered in his ear, "I think he minds, actually."

"What?" Sam said, jerking back far enough to look at his dance partner.

"If he had lasers for eyes, I'd be burned to a crisp right now," Adam said, nodding his head over to the corner where Sam had left Dean.

They turned again so Sam could see. Dean was leveling a pretty serious glare at Adam, but when he saw Sam looking, he plastered a smile on his face and gave Sam a little wave.

_Weird_.

"D'you wanna go make sure he's okay?" Adam went on.

"Maybe," Sam said, and escaped the dance floor.

Dean met him half way, walking stiffly in the way that Sam had learned meant he thought he was being super smooth. "Who is that?" he asked.

"Adam," Sam said. "He's the guy who planned this whole thing. I think he was trying to be nice to the new kid."

"Mmm hmm," Dean said, but he wasn't looking at Sam, he was glaring at Adam.

"He thought you were my boyfriend," Sam added, the words coming out before he thought about whether or not they were a good idea.

"And he was still all over you like that?"

Not an incredulous laugh, not, "Did you tell him I'm your brother?" _Even weirder_. If Sam didn't know better, he would say Dean was jealous.

"He wasn't all over me," Sam said. Probably Dean was just freaking out because Sam had danced with a guy. That made more sense. He wanted to see Sam dancing with a girl, following in Dean's footsteps. "He was just being polite."

"Polite, my ass," Dean muttered.

"Do you want a cookie?" Sam asked, figuring a change of subject was a good plan.

Dean let the cookies distract him.

They stood around for half an hour or so, watching the students on the dance floor, Dean ignoring his duties—which included breaking things up if any couples started getting too handsy—a couple of times, instead murmuring something that sounded like, "Get in, son." When Dean did the same thing when the couple sucking each other's faces off was two guys, Sam wondered again if he really was imagining the jealousy.

A couple of girls came up and asked them both to dance, and before Sam could make up his mind what the right answer was, Dean said "yes" for them.

He'd obviously had a strict lecture from Ms. Parkman about appropriate behavior when dancing with students, because although Dean's partner was just his type, he held her at a distance, hands on her hips, a good foot of space between them despite the girl's efforts to pull him closer. Sam, distracted by watching Dean, ended up with his partner completely plastered to his front, arms twined tight around his neck, taffeta-covered stomach pressed up against his crotch.

Sam had to close his eyes, because looking at Dean while something rubbed his dick was _not_ the way to avoid embarrassing himself. Thoughts of blood, and guts, and the stench of swamp monsters kept him just about under control until the song ended.

"Thanks," Sam said when his partner let him go. She grinned at him and grabbed her friend, and they ran off, clutching each other's arms, squealing something at each other.

"Well, that wasn't at all awkward," Dean said. "I could feel your teachers eyes drilling into my back the whole time. Can you believe she actually threatened to cut my balls off if I touched any of the girls?"

Sam could believe it, but he didn't say so.

"Wanna get some fresh air?" Dean said.

"Um, sure."

They headed for the door that led out onto the quad, where the students were allowed as long as they didn't try to climb the fence to the playground.

Mr. Poppenstaal, the math teacher, was lounging against the wall outside the door, keeping an eye on things, making sure no one was drinking or doing whatever else it was students weren't supposed to be doing on school property, and he nodded at Sam and Dean as they went past. It was early enough that most of the kids hadn't gotten overheated or bored yet, and there were only a few clusters of people in the quad. As though he were the one who went to school here and knew where he was going, Dean led the way across the grass to where there were several alcoves in the school wall housing vending machines, drinking fountains, and the doors to the bathrooms.

The one on the end opened onto a hatch where you could buy pizza or microwave burritos at lunch time, but now it was just a dark corner. There was a sign taped to the archway, decorated with hearts, that said, **Respect yourself, respect your school**, but it was otherwise unguarded. Dean ducked inside.

"Not used to so many people," he said when Sam joined him in the dim space.

"Or such cheesy music."

"Seriously. That DJ needs to get some Zep in there or something. _Stairway to Heaven_. School dance classic."

"Are you mad I danced with Adam?" Sam wasn't sure where the words came from, and instantly wished he could take them back.

"What? No. Why would— No." The lighting wasn't very good, but Sam could see that Dean wasn't looking at him.

"Dean?" he pressed.

"You should dance with whoever makes you happy, Sammy."

Sam took a deep breath to fortify his nerves. Then, in an effort to sound more casual so he could pass it off as a joke if Dean freaked, he took a more normal breath before saying, "What if who I want to dance with is you?"

Not that the careful breathing did any good. Sam didn't sound even a little bit like he was joking.

"Sam," Dean said. But he didn't say, "no," and he didn't try to leave.

Maybe it was that Dean looked so different in his tux, maybe it was the way this whole night had been like a date, maybe it was just the teenage hormones the health teacher was always warning them about, but Sam couldn't stop himself. He couldn't just look anymore. Eyes on Dean's face, he stepped forward and put his arms around Dean's neck.

"Sam," Dean said again. Only this time he added, "We can't."

He might have been more convincing if his hands weren't sliding under Sam's tuxedo jacket.

They stood there forever—Sam's forearms resting on Dean's shoulders, Dean's hands heavy and hot on Sam's hips—or at least until the strains of bouncy pop music coming from the gym were replaced by the opening notes of _Stairway to Heaven_. Sam wanted to laugh. He wanted to pull Dean closer, wanted to say something stupid and cheesy, like, "They're playing our song," but he just started swaying a little, in time with the music.

Like that broke some kind of spell, Dean unfroze, pulling Sam in against his chest, hands on the small of Sam's back. It was like dancing with the girl earlier, except for how it was completely different, because this was _Dean_, not just a girl whose name he didn't even know. Dean was rubbing up against him the same way, making him hard, but this time there was nothing Sam could do to stop it.

Years of hiding his dick's reactions from Dean made him pull back, and Dean let him go, pushing himself away, saying, "Fuck, sorry, god. You don't want—" He dodged around Sam and out the archway.

"Don't want what?" Sam asked, grabbing at Dean's wrist. He didn't get a grip, but the brush of his fingers made Dean turn around.

"Don't want—" Dean waved a hand, pffting a burst of air between pursed lips, and strode away from Sam, but he stayed in the alcove this time, at least.

"Whatever it is, unless it's you leaving, I want it," Sam said. Then, "I mean—" only what he'd said was just what he meant, so he stopped.

Dean had practically wedged himself in the angle between the side wall and the alcove's façade, and Sam could only see the white of his shirt, and then the flash of his eyes when he looked up. "Sam, you're— We're— _Sammy_…" He sounded pained.

"Fuck, _Dean_," Sam said, and dove at his brother, arms around his neck again. Instinct, bad judgment, he wasn't sure, but the next thing he knew he was kissing Dean, pressing their lips together, too hard and frantic to feel good.

Dean went stiff—or stiffer, he was pretty on edge already—and tried to shove Sam away. But Sam clung to him, whimpering his protest, and wouldn't step back. He just kept mashing his lips against Dean's until Dean finally opened his mouth, started tugging closer instead of pushing away. It was rough and sloppy, Dean's teeth caught painfully on Sam's lip, his fingers were too tight on Sam's waist, and Sam couldn't have cared less.

After a minute or so—_Stairway_ was ramping up to the bridge—they calmed down enough to really _kiss_, lips moving, tongues exploring, hands caressing instead of grabbing, Sam's dick so hard he thought he was going to make a mess in his rented pants. Dean's fingers fumbled under his cummerbund, going, Sam hoped, for his fly, and Sam moved his own hand down to rub at Dean's crotch, pushing his jacket out of the way.

"Sam," Dean was saying, voice ragged and low in Sam's ear. "Sammy, Jesus, fuck, Sammy," and Sam was talking too, he didn't even know what, when Sam heard Mr. Poppenstaal's voice from only a few feet away.

"None of that, now," the teacher said, and Sam and Dean jerked apart. "Vending machines are off limits during the dance."

He was in the next alcove along, couldn't see them. Sam was happy to go back to what they were doing, figuring that if the teacher had seen them come in here, he would have been in to investigate earlier, but Dean shook his head, palm over Sam's mouth, the look on his face one that Sam had seen on a dozen hunts. It meant, _shut up and don't move_, and Sam had learned to obey it without question.

There were protests from the other side of the wall—_But I already paid for it, you can't take it away_—and an answering admonishment—_I know you can read Mr. Moore, I've caught you with comic books often enough in my class_—and then footsteps heading back toward the gym. Dean finally let Sam go. Not that Sam wanted him to.

"We'd better get back inside," Dean said, like they could just stop here, like they weren't tenting their pants, like Sam didn't need to keep kissing Dean pretty much _forever_ now that he had him.

"No."

"Sam, I got the lecture from your teacher about feeling up students. It was a serious lecture. _And_ she knows I'm your brother. That is a world of trouble we don't need coming down on us, and Dad isn't back for another couple weeks, so we can't just take off."

"Fine. But we can take off tonight. There are plenty of chaperones. Just tell her I have a migraine or something and you have to take me home."

"She's gonna think you were drinking." Sam was pretty sure Dean's heart wasn't really in the protest.

"Dean. Just tell her. I'll meet you in the car." Sam pushed Dean toward the archway, figuring it would look better to Mr. Poppenstaal if a chaperone came out of one of the alcoves. Sam could sneak out after.

They made it to the parking lot without incident, though Dean did ask again if Sam was sure he wanted to leave.

"Oh my god, Dean, standing around waiting for a bunch of streamers to fall on my head, or getting your hand on my dick? What do you think?"

Dean looked a little stunned at that, like maybe he didn't expect Sam to say it out loud, but he got behind the wheel.

In the car, Sam drank his fill of Dean in his tuxedo, because he planned to get it off him as soon as they got home.

"Stop staring," Dean muttered when they were stopped at the traffic light on Juniper and Third.

"Can't help it." And Sam couldn't. Dean was amazing. And he'd kissed Sam back. Hadn't called him sick, or told him to fuck off. He'd kissed _back_.

"Could you at least keep your hands to yourself? It's a little distracting."

Sam hadn't even realized that he had one hand in Dean's lap, kneading the top of his thigh. It was something he'd fantasized about doing at least a million times—every time he and Dean were in the front seat together for what felt like forever—and apparently his hand thought the making out at the dance was like a permission slip.

"Sorry," Sam said, and snatched it back. His palm felt cold without the heat of Dean's leg under it.

"We're almost home. Then you can—" He broke off to mutter, _jesus this isn't right_— "We're almost home."

Not liking the _this isn't right_, Sam almost asked if Dean had changed his mind, but he didn't want to give his brother a chance to say yes to that question, so he kept his mouth shut. Dean wouldn't have kissed him back like that if he didn't want it just as much as Sam did. He _couldn't_ have.

Fortunately, they turned the corner then, and pulled up in front of their apartment. Sam kept his hands off his brother's ass by pure force of will as Dean walked up the stairs ahead of him and unlocked the door. The tux pants were much tighter than the jeans Dean usually wore, and Sam liked them. A lot.

Once they were inside, Dean finally looked Sam in the face. "We don't have to do this, you know," he said.

"Dean." Sam couldn't understand how Dean could possibly not see that Sam wanted this more than anything.

"If you're just—I don't know. If you just think—"

Sam really didn't want to have a conversation about this, so he pushed Dean down on the sofa, and dropped on top of him. "I think I want to suck you," he said and then kissed him again.

Dean was either into the idea of Sam giving him head, or just decided arguing any more wasn't worth the effort, because he not only kissed back, but started pushing Sam's jacket off his shoulders. Sam was more than willing to help, and then knelt up, one foot on the floor, one knee between Dean's legs, trying to get his shirt off. He was hampered yet again by the tie and cummerbund, but Dean just lay there, grinning at his efforts.

"Fuck you," Sam said.

Dean's eyes got wide at that. Sam hadn't actually considered the possibility—or not with any idea that it might _actually_ happen, even if they somehow got as far as kissing—but he was certainly thinking about it now. Not that he thought they were going to get quite that far tonight. Sam was pretty sure he'd go off if Dean just got his hand on his dick. And he hadn't been kidding about wanting to suck his brother.

Instead of helping Sam, Dean started on his own clothes, undoing the little buttons on his shirt, and pulling off his tie. That distracted Sam further, making getting out of his own outfit even more difficult. Finally, Dean sat up and finished what Sam had started, and they were both naked from the waist up.

Sam reached out to touch his brother, and Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's back, pressing his face to Sam's ribs. Sam was pretty sure he could hear Dean sniffing, and it kind of tickled, but before he could say anything, Dean started licking and biting his chest and stomach, and that didn't tickle at all. It did make him completely weak in the knees though, and he had to grab onto the back of the sofa to stay upright. He could feel his dick straining against the constriction of his pants.

"Oh god, oh god, oh _god_," he said, or at least that's what he thought it was. He realized that his grip on Dean's shoulder was as tight as his grip on the sofa, and that it felt like his fingers were going to snap if he didn't ease up a little, but then it didn't matter because Dean was doing this sucking thing on the skin just above Sam's hipbone, and Sam couldn't hold on to anything anymore, just curled up, shaking, dick jerking hard as he came

"You okay?" Dean asked, pushing Sam's sweaty hair off his face.

All Sam could do was nod, head heavy in Dean's lap where he'd somehow collapsed.

"Did you just jizz in Al's pants?"

Sam flipped his brother off.

Dean just rubbed the wet fabric in response.

Sam was far too sensitive still, and whined something that was probably "Stop it," but was muffled against Dean's pants. Wiggling and pushing, Sam managed to get Dean to move back enough that he could get his mouth against Dean's hard on.

"Off, off," Dean said, freaking Sam out for a minute until he realized Dean meant his pants, and not Sam's mouth. Sam took the opportunity to get his pants off, too, because they were going cold and uncomfortable.

And finally they were naked. Sam thought that Dean looked better in a tux than anything else, but that was before he saw him fully bare, cock hard, legs spread like he was just waiting for Sam to drop between them. The tux was nothing compared to that.

Sam knelt next to the foot Dean had on the floor, and bent over his dick. He felt like he should ask if he could touch it—this was too momentous to just happen—but what if Dean said no? What if the words got stuck in his throat? Sam just pressed his lips to the soft skin at the top of Dean's thigh. And knew instantly that yes, Dean had been sniffing him earlier, and he knew why. Sam couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. Like looking at Dean in the car, only a thousand times more intense. He realized how often he'd lain on Dean's bed, telling himself it was more comfortable, or had better light, or cleaner sheets, but he'd been relishing his brother's scent. And it was stronger, muskier, much headier here, where his cock lay against his belly. Sam found himself burying his nose in the crease at the top of Dean's leg, chin brushing Dean's balls, forehead rocking against Dean's hipbone, trying to get closer, but just suffocating himself.

Dean bucked, made a high squeaking sound, tried to drag Sam's head off with a grip on his hair. "Tickles!" he said when Sam lifted his face enough to get some air into his lungs.

Sam bit, remembering how good it felt when Dean did it to him, and that got another squeak from his brother, but it was followed by a groan, and a thrust of his hips, so Sam did it again, on the other side, worrying the skin on Dean's stomach gently between his teeth. He loved the quiver of Dean's muscles and the twitch of his dick that resulted. Sam's own dick was twitching again already, extremely interested in what was happening. It got even more interested when Dean's hand landed heavy on the back of his head, pushing his mouth closer to Dean's cock.

"Bossy," Sam said, but he didn't really mind.

The only problem was that he had no idea what he was doing. His only experience with blowjobs was his own imagination fueled by Dean's dirty magazines and some crappy cable porn. He'd told Dean that Joan VanArkle gave him a hummer after school one day, but that had just been to see if he could get Dean jealous. (He'd thought it hadn't worked, but after tonight, he was pretty sure he'd been wrong.)

What he wanted to do was lick it, so that's where he started. Dean's grip tightened at that, so Sam did it again, and then sucked the tip into his mouth. It was nothing like the come-covered fingers he'd sucked on a few times thinking about sucking Dean. Hotter, smoother, bigger, and he was a lot less in control of it. Sam got one hand on Dean's hip and the other around the base of his cock so Dean wouldn't buck the thing right down his throat. He was pretty sure puking on someone's lap was a good way to kill the mood, and he'd read that it took practice to get over your gag reflex.

Dean didn't seem to have a problem with that. "Yeah, fucking _yeah_," he said, so Sam sucked harder, and jacked with his fist.

The spurt of fluid in his mouth took him totally by surprise, and he pulled off, thinking Dean was coming, but it was just precome, running slick and shiny mixed with spit, down over Sam's fingers. He jerked again, just watching now, fascinated with his brother's dick. His own didn't do that, and he'd never looked at it this closely in any case, not being given to jacking off in front of mirrors.

"Fuck, Dean, fuck," he murmured. "Wanted this so bad." He was jerking Dean faster now, hand slippery with precome, making this almost perfect friction between palm and cock. Perfect for Sam anyway; he was so far gone in the sensation he couldn't even keep track of what Dean thought about it all.

Then Dean was coming, gripping Sam's wrist, ugh, ugh, ughing, his jizz hitting Sam in the face and neck, striping his own stomach and chest. Apparently it was pretty perfect for Dean, too.

Before Dean even had his breath back, Sam was climbing on top of him, not caring that he was smearing come between their stomachs, loving the feeling of all that naked skin, breathing in the smell of sex and Dean, which totally overpowered the somewhat musty sofa smell. Sam couldn't keep the grin off his face, so wide that when he tried to kiss Dean, it was all teeth and no lips.

"You like that?" Dean whispered into his ear when Sam gave up and moved down to nuzzle at his neck instead.

"Um, yeah." Duh.

"I can feel that," Dean said, nudging his hip enough to call attention to the hardon Sam was rubbing against him. "Want a hand with it, this time?"

Sam was too embarrassed to outright ask, which was maybe a little stupid under the circumstances, but whatever. He managed to nod, though, and roll to the side enough that Dean could get a hand between them. He was just wondering if Dean might ever want to suck him, when Dean said, "Gonna lay you out on the bed, later, and suck you 'til you scream my name."

"Fuck," Sam said, jerking like he stuck his finger in a socket, spurting weakly into the mess already smeared over Dean's stomach.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Dean said.

Sam's grin was even bigger.

Then, "Shit!" Dean said.

"Shit?" Sam tried not to panic.

"I totally forgot about your flower."

Sam heard that as a metaphor, and was just confused.

"I bought you a carnation to put in your buttonhole. And I left it in the fridge."

Sam remembered the plastic box that had worried him when Dean came home earlier.

"Tell you what," he said, feeling brazen. "I'll take your flower later."

Dean went bright red, but he said, "Deal."


End file.
